Henry in Wa Wa Coffee shop, the usual place listening to Freddie King, “The Same Old Blues” on coloured radio somewhere in Georgia—a slow blues riff, a swan song, a bow as the curtain slowly closes.
Life on the way out in closing, sweet and blue as the rain falls—sittin here waiting for a fast track, a way out, “Someday Baby” take me out of here.
Writing as— busted up form, a splash of colour and a crap shoot.
Henry a lazy writer, he had to drag himself to the keyboard. It wasn’t a passion for him, more a dull itch.
Henry didn’t like people. In the old days the pikers new their place at the gaming table, today anybody with a blog is a super star— way too much self and more self everywhere you looked. Andy Warhol the gay prophet of the brewing yuk-factor.
“Everybody will have fifteen minutes of fame.”
And the yuk-yuks are tripping all over each other like spawning Salmon in heat to get theirs.